


Engine Heart

by ohmyfae



Series: Dads of the Year [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Also background Clarus/Regis, Gen, This is basically a dadfic, with a dash of Promptis at the end there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9631697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Cor doesn't rescue Prompto from Niflheim as an infant: He rescues him at seventeen, when MT!Prompto is left for dead on a battlefield.This then becomes the most dad fic of all dad fics. Dad levels are off the charts. No going back.A fill for the kinkmeme! (It's already done, so updates will be quick!)





	1. Chapter 1

It began as a standard skirmish. Niflheim had sent MT troopers down to the lightly fortified garrison east of the city, and Cor had come out with one of his new squads to see how they fared in the field. The MTs were a common sort—easy to take out, too regimented to pose much of a threat against an adaptable team of soldiers. The MT carrier that had delivered them took off as soon as the fight started to turn against the Empire, leaving the broken MT troopers to sputter and die out on the field.

“Don’t forget the armor,” Cor said, as his squad regrouped. “The scientists at the Citadel want one of their masks. Faces. Whatever they are.”

“You never wondered what was underneath one of these things, Marshal?” asked his sergeant, walking over to a still shuddering MT. She nudged it with the toe of her boot, and it stilled.

“Never really thought about it,” Cor said. He leaned down and yanked the green mask off of the MT at the sergeant’s feet, and froze.

A deathly silence fell over the squad. All that could be heard was the whistle of wind over rock, and the soft, gasping breaths of the young man in the MT suit of armor.

“Holy hell,” said the sergeant.

The face behind the mask was blonde, and young, with dark freckles and a narrow chin. When Cor pressed a hand to his neck, he could feel the pulse of blood. The boy’s eyes were squinted shut as though the light hurt him, and he let out a hissing sound through clenched teeth.

“Gods. I thought they were _machines,_ ” said one of the enlisted men. He was shushed, and Cor and the sergeant started dismantling the armor around the boy.

“No,” the boy cried, in a dreadful, rasping voice. “Please. I don’t. I don’t want to _die._ ”

“You aren’t gonna die,” Cor said. “Where does it hurt?”

“My… my legs, I can’t move my—“

“Alright, kid. We’re gonna be real careful, okay? Tell us if the pain gets worse.”

Bits of metal and chain were kicked to the side. The others flinched when Cor peeled back the outer armor of the boy’s arms and a tangle of wires popped free from his flesh. He cried out, and one of the soldiers placed a hand on his hair, gentling him. At last, he was laid out in a mess of wire, metal scraps, and leather. He was wearing a thin black jumpsuit that clung to his skin, and there were angry red tracks up his arms that looked distressingly like the marks of a needle. His legs were, in Cor’s esteemed medical opinion, shot to hell, but they weren’t a lost cause yet. He sent some soldiers out for a stretcher, and the sergeant popped open a bottle of elixir from her pack.

The elixir helped, at least enough to get the boy to the stretcher without incident. They hurried him into the back of the van and huddled around him in silence as Cor gave the driver the order to move out.

“None of you are to repeat what you’ve seen until I tell you otherwise,” Cor said, and made sure he had an affirmation from each of them before he turned back to the MT. The boy.

He had to admit there was something off about the kid. His eyes were a bright blood red, and when he spoke, there was a buzzing sound in the back of his throat. His skin was hot to the touch, and the blood that oozed through the bandage they’d set on his leg was rust brown. But he wept like a child, and when Cor unthinkingly placed a hand over his, he gripped him tight like a man drowning.

“How old are you?” Cor asked, over the roar of the van’s engine. The boy shuddered.

“I was commissioned seventeen years ago,” he said.

“Do you have a name?”

Silence.

“Hell,” said Cor, with feeling. He thought of all the MT soldiers he’d killed, all the bodies he’d left to rot in the fields, thinking them nothing but machinery and oil. Then he looked at the trembling fingers wrapped around his own, and held down a thick knot of rage in his chest. The Empire truly was monstrous, if this is what it did to its children.


	2. Chapter 2

When the squad made it back to the Citadel, they were met by a team of physicians’ aides and a rolling gurney onto which the young MT soldier was placed. As soon as it was made clear that he was to be taken to a doctor, the boy had to be sedated for his own safety. Even then, he fought the drug, glaring at Cor with the red-eyed hatred of true betrayal, and was summarily strapped down to prevent him from trying to roll away. Cor watched him go for a moment before leading his troops straight into the Citadel for debriefing.

Regis and Clarus took the news as well as could be expected. They were parents to two young men close in age to the boy, and while Regis’ eyes only darkened at the description Cor made of the boy’s physical status and the truth of what lay behind the Magitech infantry's masks, Clarus was positively livid.

“We were close to that age when _we_ went to war, Clarus,” the King reminded his shield.

“This isn’t the same,” Clarus growled. Cor had to agree. There was a difference between young men signing up for horrors and being raised to it. In the end, it was agreed that the boy would stay in one of the few cells in the Citadel set aside for prisoners of war. It had been largely unused in recent years, as until now, they had all assumed that there were no _people_ to be _taken_ prisoner.

Cor requested to be placed in charge of the boy’s case file. Clarus approved his request, so long as he reported all his observations to him and the king alone.

As soon as their briefing was done, Cor made his way to the physicians. The rattled nurse at the front desk told him that the boy was still in the operating room, and Cor settled down to wait in one of the stiff-backed chairs out front.

Clarus found him an hour later. He thrust a paper bag in Cor’s unresisting hands and sat heavily next to him, making his chair creak alarmingly.

“Saw it happen with Regis,” he said. “Back when Noctis went under. Don’t forget to eat, Marshal.”

Cor opened the bag and found what looked like a spinach wrap. “This from your own lunch, sir?”

“Just don’t tell Regis. He’s a bear for vegetables.” Clarus eased into a slouch, as though prepared for a long wait, and Cor resigned himself to the shield’s unwanted leftovers.

“I should point out, though,” he said, through a mouthful of spinach and sprouts, “that I’m no one’s anxious parent. I’m here because I have to be.”

“Sure,” said Clarus, in a voice that was far too light. “I got you.”

The both of them had nearly fallen asleep by the time the doctors came in. It tasted like something had died in his mouth, and Cor could feel the grit in his skin, but he ignored the doctors’ sideways looks and followed them into a small office.

“He’ll keep the use of his legs,” one of the physicians said, handing him a thick file. “We did a retinal scan to try and figure out what was wrong with his eyes, and… uh.” She made an embarrassed grimace. “We don’t know. It isn’t anything we’ve seen before. We have blood tests going, but it may be a while before we make any progress.”

“There was a tracker in his neck,” said another physician. “And a serial code. We removed the tracker—it’s being sent up to the scientists in 3B for examination—and we have the serial code scanned on the fourth page of the file, right there.”

Cor sighed. “This is going to be a mess,” he said, in a quiet voice. Clarus placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Can we see him?”

“Sure thing, Marshal. He’s going to be a bit out of it. I don’t think he’s had anesthetic before. It hit him hard.”

Cor thought of the wires that had been lodged in the boy’s skin and scowled, making the doctors shift back in alarm. He handed the file back to them, thanked them for their service and _discretion,_ and left them to Clarus’ tender mercies.

The boy, when he was wheeled out, really _was_ out of it.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What is this?” He tried to run his hands over the sides of the wheelchair, but missed. “Why can’t I feel anything?”

“You’ll feel enough when you’ve had time to sleep,” Cor said. He took the handles of the chair from the nurse and met a number of Crownsguard waiting in the hall outside. “You men with Clarus?” They nodded.

“All these real people,” the boy said. The buzzing in his voice was so thick, it was hard to hear him properly. “I’m not authorized. Not authorized to guard real people yet.”

“They’re here to guard you,” Cor said, trying to hide a smile. The boy squinted up at him dubiously.

“I’m a Class 6C Phase Three Magitech,” he said, reasonably. “Not a _person._ ”

“I’m not equipped for this,” Cor murmured. He motioned for the men to lead them out, and pushed the highly bewildered young man out of the waiting room and into the halls of the Citadel.

The boy kept up a running commentary as they made their way to the cells. He was very impressed with the doctors, it turned out.

“It didn’t even _hurt,_ ” he said, for the fifth time. “It always hurts. Always, always.”

“Is that right,” Cor said. One of the guards looked at him sidelong and shrugged.

“Always. You’re very strange,” the boy said, abruptly. “You’re a soldier, but you’re not. How can you be a soldier... and also not?”

“I’ll tell you later, kid.”

The boy looked at him blankly, as though there were a pivotal part of that sentence that didn't fit in his vocabulary. Cor bit down on the inside of his lip and held back a curse. He was going to kill the Emperor _himself._ With his bare hands, if need be.

The boy was even more unsettled by the room he was supposed to stay in. The wall on one side was heavily reinforced glass with a metal frame that could be drawn across it, and the furnishings were sparse: A serviceable bed, a small bookcase with a few old books lying every which way, and an open washroom. Everything was set up very carefully so that there was no chance that the prisoners within could use anything to hurt themselves, and as such it looked rather sad and forbidding.

“I shouldn’t be here,” the boy said, at once, when he was wheeled in. “I’m not qualified for a dorm.”

“This isn’t a dorm,” Cor said, trying to keep patient. “It’s a… it’s where you’re going to live for a while.”

The boy protested, insisting that he wasn’t advanced enough as an MT to use a bed, yet. He kept this up even as Cor gently lifted him from the wheelchair and onto the mattress, even when his voice lowered to an uneven buzzing mumble. At last, he lay back on the raised lump that served as a pillow with a look of such deep suspicion that Cor laughed. The young man jumped a little, and stared at him intently.

“Prompto,” he slurred, after a while. Cor raised an eyebrow. “You asked for my name. Before they moved me to Phase Two, there was a man who called me Prompto.”

“Well, then. I’m Cor,” he said, and gave the boy an uneasy smile. “Nice to meet you, Prompto.”


	3. Chapter 3

The trouble started the next morning. Cor woke to one of the Crownsguard texting his phone, requesting his presence at the cells as soon as possible. He tried not to pay attention to the time on his bedside alarm as he stumbled into somewhat clean clothes from three days ago. He blinked at his hair in the mirror, spat mouthwash in a desperate attempt to kill the ghosts of spinach wraps past, and lurched for the door. He was half awake by the time he made it to the lower levels, and walked past a harried-looking guard outside the door of the cell.

Another guard was just inside, hands up, approaching the boy as though he were a savage animal. The boy had rolled from the bed to the ground, and was trying to stand on legs that trembled violently. When Cor entered, the boy turned to him, his pupils black lines against a sea of red.

“What did you _do_ to me?” he moaned. He strained to lift himself up by the arms. He nearly managed it, but Cor leaned in and pulled him up all the way, depositing him on the bed. He didn’t protest the firm handling, but kept his accusatory glare fixed on the Marshal at all times.

“You were shot,” Cor said, too tired to mince words. “The doctors removed the shrapnel, but they had a mage put a stasis spell on you so you don’t try to overdo it. It’ll take a few days.”

“You’re going to _decommission_ me,” Prompto whispered. His breath came out in a static buzz, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

“No. No, kid, we aren’t gonna…” Cor stopped. This wasn’t his problem, not really. There were counselors who could do this job better, were probably already being briefed to do this job better. Cor’s task was to oversee, not to hold the kid’s hand. He thought of the paperwork that sat in untidy piles on his desk. There were soldiers who needed swearing in, meetings he had to attend, endless tasks that came with the burden of command. Then he looked at the boy, who was staring at his legs with the horror of a man on the edge, and sighed.

“Prompto,” he said. “No one will decommission you.”

“Everything’s wrong here,” Prompto said, in a small voice.

“Is that bad?”

The boy looked at him searchingly, pressing his lips in a tight line. “I don’t know.”

“It’s a start,” said Cor. “Come on. I’ll show you how to get in the wheelchair, and we’ll eat breakfast.”

Breakfast was a disaster. The boy couldn’t keep anything down. Half a slice of toast was as much as his stomach could handle, and even then, he ended up lying on the floor with his cheek pressed to the carpet, breathing hard to control the nausea that gripped him.

“What do you even eat in Niflheim?” Cor asked.

The boy gave a one-sided shrug. “Pills." He made a gesture to his arm, and the red marks that swelled near his elbow. "Other... things. Nothing like this.”

Cor grimaced. This was the danger of small talk with the kid. It led to deep pockets of unfathomable rage, fury at the injustice of an Empire that Cor had little power to break. Cor counted his breath instead, and brushed back the boy’s damp hair.

“I’m so tired,” Prompto said. “I should be in training.”

“That’s one thing that’s _definitely_ not happening.” Cor helped him sit up and lifted him to the bed. He left the boy squinting down at a collection of nature photography from the bookshelf, and started the long, weary trek to Clarus’ offices.

The blood results from the day before had led to chaos in the ranks among the Citadel’s scientists and doctors, and they wasted no time in passing on their panic to those who were paid enough to deal with it. One scientist insisted that the blood was corrupted with the Scourge. The others outweighed her hypothesis, claiming that the boy’s blood was thick with a drug that they hadn’t even _heard_ of before, and that the boy’s immune system was constantly at odds with it, trying to force out the foreign substance. They warned Clarus and Cor that it was only a matter of time before withdrawals took hold, and that until they could find a way to replicate the drug, there would be no regulating the force of the boy’s reaction to it.

“You need to be prepared for the likelihood that it will kill him,” the lead researcher said carefully. “His temperature is already unnaturally high. A fever could do permanent damage.”

Clarus looked at Cor briefly before dismissing the scientist. “At least we know,” he said. “I’m giving Gladiolus leave to take him out for a spell, tomorrow. It may do him good to see someone his own age, and it can offer him some comfort at the least.”

“Don’t say it like that, Clarus,” Cor said, impulsively, and knew how pathetic he sounded even before the words were out. Soldiers died all the time: From infection, from illness, injury. Cor had made a mistake to attach himself to this one, but he could tell that it was too late to step away—He thought of that pale, red-eyed boy trailing his fingers over the glossy pages of the book as he left, and felt something unnamed and painful stirring in his chest. He barely even noticed that Clarus had moved to stand next to him, a large hand settling at the joining of his shoulder and neck.

“We can hope for the best,” he said, in a low voice. “I _am_ sorry, Cor.”

Cor ground his teeth and looked away, cursing himself for a fool.

 

\---

 

“You must be Prompto.”

Gladiolus crouched down on his ankles at the side of the prisoner’s bed, making sure to keep his expression light. His fathers had warned him about the prisoner's... stranger qualities... ahead of time, but it hadn’t been enough to prepare him for how very _red_ the boy’s eyes were, or the way his breath came out in a rasp that sounded like a grate being dragged across the sand. They hadn’t prepared him for how skinny the boy was, either. _Almost as scrawny as Noct,_ Gladio thought, taking note of the stiff way Prompto stretched his legs.

The young man looked up at Gladio with apprehension. He held the book on his lap tight, as though worried it would be taken from him, and his pupils were contracting with fear.

“I’m Gladio. You've met my dad, I think. Clarus,” Gladio said. “The big guy, bald on the top, looks like this.” He pulled a face, and Prompto’s expression twisted, like he was trying not to smile. “Yeah, you know him, then.”

“He seemed angry,” Prompto said, warily. Gladio had to strain to make out the words through the growling buzz in the young man's voice.

“Not at you,” said Gladio. “Come on. Do you want to go outside? I have permission.”

Prompto looked down at the book in his hands, then over at Gladio, then back to the book. “You can bring it with, if you want.”

He was rewarded with what almost looked like a smile, weak and shaking and a little too broad. “Yes,” Prompto said. “Yes, I’d like to.”

So Gladio watched as Prompto eased himself into the wheelchair, and caught a glance at the book before Prompto slipped it into a side pocket. Photography, huh? Well, even MTs had to have a hobby. He almost started wheeling the kid out before he remembered something his father had ordered, and pulled out a pair of dark glasses.

“For you,” he said, handing them to Prompto. “So no one freaks out about your eyes.” He waited until the glasses were secure, and then cheerily wheeled them both out of the cell.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Gladio stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall and let out a low, toneless whistle. Noctis Lucis Caelum staggered out of a doorway, looking like he’d been dragged out of bed by the hair, followed by his advisor, Ignis, who looked like he was the one who did most of the dragging. The boy in the chair stiffened at the sight of them, but Noct just waved and smirked.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m Noct. This is Ignis. We’re gonna be your honor guard.”

“I’ve seen you before,” Prompto said, and Ignis and Gladio both drew themselves to attention. Noct raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Don’t know why. They said your name’s Prompto?”

“I… guess.” The boy looked bewildered, and held up his right hand. “I’m supposed to go by my serial code, but no one wants to use that—“

“Too many numbers,” Gladio said, peering at the tattoo on his wrist. “Prompto’s easier.”

Noct leaned down so that his eyes were level with the MT’s. “Wanna see something really _boring?_ You’ll love it, it was Iggy’s idea.”

Ignis let out a wordless sound of protest, and the three of them fell into step around Prompto.

Halfway down the next hall, Noct and Ignis showed Prompto—to varying degrees of success—how to move the wheelchair himself. Two corridors later, Prompto was engaging Noct in a haphazard race, Gladio just at their heels, while Ignis cried that they _Please, let us not all get court-martialed._ Gladio was allowed a look at the book of photography, and after a moment of intense inner conflict, Ignis showed Prompto how to use the camera on his phone. Ignis’ camera roll was soon filled with up-close pictures of Prompto’s thumb, shots of Noct trying to look like he wasn’t posing, faded pictures of Gladio’s bicep and the back of Ignis’ head, and one very confused selfie.

“We’re gonna have to get you a real camera,” Noct said at last, just before they reached their destination. He pressed a hand on a wide, grey door, and stopped at a faint choking sound from behind him.

Prompto looked up from Ignis’ phone, and his face was streaked with tears. Gladio and Ignis exchanged a hurried glance, and Gladio pulled up Clarus' number on his phone, just in case. Noct sank down into a crouch in front of the blonde, and cautiously lifted up his glasses.

“Damn,” said the prince. He pulled his hand away from Prompto's cheek. “That _burns._ ”

Prompto tried to take a deep breath and let out a hitching sob, then set the phone down in trembling hands.

“I think I’m malfunctioning,” he gasped, and fell forward into a dead faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There is no way that a highly advanced city powered by a magical crystal doesn't have ridiculous top-of-the-line medical care.)
> 
> (Also yes, Gladio and Noct have two dads I WONDER WHO THEY ARE, HMMMM)


	4. Chapter 4

Cor burst into the waiting room of the Citadel infirmary to find a crowd of people clustered by the front desk.

“I swear, we didn’t know,” Prince Noctis was saying, standing with the king near the corner of the room. “He just, he _fainted,_ and then he started coughing this black stuff, and Gladio had to carry him, and I—“

“It wasn’t his highness’ fault, Your Majesty,” Ignis, prince Noctis’ prodigy of an advisor, insisted. “I suggested we go to the planetarium, and it wore him out—“

“Sir, tell me he ain’t gonna _die_ from it.” Gladio asked Clarus, who was looking over a thick clipboard of notes. “He was just _tired—_ ”

“Marshal.” Clarus saw Cor at last, and placed a comforting hand on his son’s arm before turning his way. “We are needed within.”

“So soon?” Cor asked. Clarus gave him a warning look, and Cor glanced at the frantic young men throwing themselves into a spiral of panic. It wouldn’t do to escalate the situation. He nodded and followed Clarus into the hall leading towards the operating room. Clarus’ slow pace immediately quickened, and Cor trotted to keep up, a lump of fear weighing tight in his chest.

“Brace yourself,” Clarus said. Cor took a deep breath. “The doctors say he’s losing blood. They’re giving him transfusions, but the boy… well, you’ll need to see for yourself, I’m afraid.”

Clarus pulled gloves and a smock off a peg on the wall, and Cor followed suit, fitting them on awkwardly. Then he was led into a small room lit by a bright blue overhead light, where three doctors stood over—

The boy writhed on the table, eyes squinted shut, fingers clenched so tight that his nails dug into his palms. One of the doctors tried to hold him still, but he fought him off, showing remarkable strength for a boy of seventeen, and nearly fell. Cor lunged forward and placed firm hands on Prompto’s arms.

When the boy opened his eyes at the touch, his teeth bared in a guttural snarl.

“Easy, kid,” Cor said. He squinted at a grey smear on the side of the boy’s mouth, and looked back at Clarus, a question in his eyes. Clarus tapped the corner of his eyes and pointed to Prompto, and Cor followed his lead.

Liquid blackness trailed like tear tracks down the side of Prompto’s cheeks.

“You’ve seen this before,” Clarus said. Around them, the doctors re-fitted Prompto with an IV, now that he was no longer thrashing on the table. “You know what this is, Cor.”

Cor reached out and touched the oily stain on the boy’s cheeks. He did know this. It was the same liquid he’d cleaned off of his blades in the night outside of the city, the puddles that lingered on the ground after his enemies had dissolved in the first rays of the morning sun.

“This isn’t a drug, Clarus,” Cor said, in a voice that shook.

“I know,” Clarus replied.

Both men stood in silence, staring at the blackness on Cor’s fingers.

“Daemon,” Cor said, at last. “It’s the blood of a _daemon._ ” He wiped his hand off on his pants, making the King’s Shield scowl. “That’s what they’ve been feeding him. It’s not a drug. It’s _blood._ ”

“Could he have been a daemon all this time?” Clarus asked. “In disguise, like the Ronin—“

“No.” Cor spat the word. “I found him in the _sunlight._ ”

“Cor,” Clarus said. “If the boy isn’t fully human, you know what we’ll have to do.”

Cor looked down on the growling, pain-stricken boy on the table below him, and nodded. He knew.

The doctors said that they only needed one person to hold Prompto down, and Clarus brooked no argument when Cor insisted on staying. He spoke softly to the boy as he gripped him by the arms, but he hardly paid attention to his own words. He just needed to speak, to make sure that there was something, anything, familiar for the boy to hold on to. For the longest time, Prompto showed no signs of knowing who _he_ was, let alone who was standing over him. He hissed and spat, his red eyes glowing as dark blood stained his chest, the table, Cor’s hands and sleeves. At last, his gaze seemed to focus, and he turned his face up to Cor’s.

“ _You,_ ” he said.

“Welcome back,” Cor told him. “How are you feeling?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” he said, and Cor smiled wryly. He sat on a low stool next to the boy, and slowly released his grip on his arms. Prompto twitched, but didn’t move, and the doctors around them breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“Am I dying?” Prompto asked.

“No,” said Cor, but it felt like a lie. Prompto grimaced.

“We’re not supposed to be afraid,” he said. The black ichor that ran from the boy’s eyes and nose was thick and sluggish, and his teeth were stained with it. “When we’re deployed. An MT that fears death is _defective._ ” It sounded like he was quoting someone. “I’ve always been defective.”

Cor thought of the rumors that surrounded his own name on the field. Cor the Immortal. The man who emerged alive from battles that had taken out entire squadrons, the man who entered the fray in a team and stepped out of it alone. A coward, a man so afraid of death that he would sacrifice his men to stave it off one day longer. It didn’t matter if the rumors were true or not. He _was_ afraid, had always been afraid. The specter of his fear would follow him for the rest of his life.

“You aren’t defective,” he told the boy. He gripped Prompto’s hand, and wondered what could have been said to comfort _him_ when he was that age, stepping into his army fatigues for the first time and into the chaos of a gunfight. “Being afraid, surviving it, it makes you human.”

The boy who had been an MT soldier let out a gruesome, rasping laugh.

Cor reached out with his free hand and brushed back Prompto’s light blond hair, trying not to wince at the heat of his scalp and the tremor in his skin. Prompto closed his eyes and let out a shuddering sigh, and Cor felt that unfamiliar pull in his chest again. He shifted closer and squeezed the boy’s hand in his.

“I’ll stay with you, Prompto,” he said, in a soft voice. “Whatever happens, you won’t go through it alone.”

 

\---

 

Cor was roused a few hours later by one of the doctors.

“The worst is over,” she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, and she looked as worn as Cor felt. “My guess—and this is all sadly hypothetical, Marshal—is he’ll keep this up until his eyes change. Look.” She lifted the right eyelid of the sleeping boy, revealing lines of white tracing over the red. “He’ll need more transfusions before it’s done, so we’ll need to keep. Keep a nurse with him.” She swayed, and sat on the stool next to Cor. “My apologies.”

“Where are the others?” Cor asked. She shrugged.

“It got ugly, Marshal. They’re recovering. Something about contact with the… blood… wore on them. On us. Good thing some of us have stamina, huh?” She rubbed Prompto’s shoulder with a gloved hand. “The Six alone know how he manages to live with that inside him.”

“Can he be moved?” Cor asked her.

“Clarus ordered for the necessary equipment to be delivered to his room an hour ago.” The doctor said, with a smile. “We’ve been waiting on you.”

When Cor wheeled out the still unconscious Prompto into the waiting room, he was surprised to find Gladiolus, Noctis, and Ignis asleep in an unruly pile in the corner. Ignis woke first, and nudged the others awake in his scramble to look halfway presentable.

“He’s alright?” Ignis asked. Cor nodded, and tapped his lips for silence. The prince and his friends followed him out of the room, trailing him down the halls. _Like ducklings,_ he thought, bemused.

Gladio, Ignis, and Noct were convinced to leave Prompto alone for the night, but Cor stayed in the cell, back to the wall at Prompto’s bedside, for the rest of the evening.

“Cor.” He opened his eyes with a jolt. The room was dark, but the red of Prompto’s eyes glowed with an unsteady, flickering light. “Cor.”

“’m here,” he said. He scrubbed at the beginnings of a beard along his jaw, and sighed.

“I feel _terrible,_ ” Prompto said.

“Good. Means you’re alive.”

Prompto blinked, and the glow of his eyes was like a set of embers against his thin lids. “I knew a defective MT once. Not knew, really. Trained with her.”

“She probably wasn’t really defective, Prompto,” Cor said, gently.

“I know. I don’t think she was. She was just… sad, and she let it show. I think a lot of us were, but we knew how to hide it.” He sighed. “Sometimes you hear MTs go wild in their containment cells. Those are the best ones. The ones who don’t feel anything at all.”

“The rules are different, here,” Cor said. “You aren’t an MT anymore.”

When the boy spoke, he didn't sound entirely convinced. “Is it okay to be scared of that?” Cor nodded.

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

There was a long silence, and then the lights of Prompto’s eyes left a trail of fire in the darkness as he rolled over. “Cor,” he said, in the soft hum that was his whisper.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.” The boy curled up on the thin sheet of the bed, and his fingers ghosted over Cor’s shoulder. “For staying.”

“Any time, kid,” Cor said. “Any time.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -sneaks in trans Regis headcanon, slips away-

The nurse placed with Prompto insisted it would take time before the boy was remotely ready for visitors, but the prince and his friends were hardly deterred. They remained a thorn in the nurse’s side for weeks, peering through the glass partition to check if Prompto was awake, sneaking in with stolen passcards, trying to bribe the nurse with handmade desserts and vows of eternal affection. The prince even tried to appeal to Cor, once, but the impassive look on his face nipped that plan in the bud.

“We’re not wearing you out, are we, Prompto?” Noct asked, sometime in the second week. Prompto looked up blearily from a mess of blankets, half of which had been stolen from Gladio and Noct’s house and bore the royal family crest. The slow decrease to an average temperature was hard for him to handle, and he was shivering most of the time, these days.

“Yes,” he said, in a slurred voice. “I mean no. Stay.”

Noct smiled at the nurse, who shook his head.

At the beginning of the third week, Prompto’s cell was starting to look less like a prison and more like an actual room. One night, long after the nurse had retired for the evening, Noct and Gladio had secretly wheeled in an ancient television, complete with an outdated Justice Monsters 3 game console, and found that Prompto had a natural ability for tactical fighting games.

“It’s like what they taught us in Phase One training,” he explained, as he, Noct, and Gladio slouched in a huddle on the edge of the bed. “But no one is decommissioned in this one.”

“What do you mean, _No one is decommissioned?_ ” Gladio asked. The glow of Prompto's eyes was faint against the blue light of the television.

“That’s… that’s how it is,” he said, suddenly hesitant. “When you train for battle. If the other team fails, they’re decommissioned and the researchers start over. It’s how you move to Phase Two.”

There was a heavy silence at that.

“How old are you, usually, when you reach Phase Two?” Noct asked.

“I think it’d been ten years when I advanced,” said Prompto, matter-of-factly. “I was slow.”

The other two didn’t delve any further after that.

The TV caused a minor incident, and as a result, Ignis was the only one of the three friends to visit Prompto for a while. He was conscientious of the nurse’s needs and remarkably polite to Cor when the Marshal was there, and was so patient and soft-spoken that Prompto took to grilling him for information whenever they were alone.

“You said Gladio and Noctis are brothers,” he said, one day.

“Technically, half-brothers,” said Ignis. “Gladio is Mr. Amicitia’s son from his first marriage, and Noctis and their sister, Iris, are Mr. Amicitia and the King’s biologi—“

“Wait. Sister?”

It took Ignis nearly an hour to explain the concept of blood relations. Prompto seemed to view the concept of childbirth in particular as something bizarre and not entirely necessary, and expressed the opinion that the King shouldn’t have to go through the experience twice when cloning was an option, and there were perfectly functional labs in the Citadel.

“Don’t tell _him_ that,” Ignis said with a laugh, and Prompto spent the rest of the day in contemplative silence.

“Do _you_ have a child?” he asked Cor, when the Marshal came in that afternoon. Cor choked.

“No,” he said. “No, I haven’t had the…” He coughed, trying to regain his self-control. “Why do you ask?”

“It doesn’t seem efficient,” Prompto said. “Everyone here is this way?” He tugged one of Noct’s blankets over his shoulders. Cor reflexively leaned in to check his temperature against the back of his hand, realized what he was doing, and stood back, shaken for a reason that he couldn’t place.

“No wonder your army is so small,” Prompto mumbled. Cor sighed.

“Not everyone joins the military, kid.” He checked the IV drip and the heart monitor—the nurse had left as Cor came in—and sat in his usual spot next to the bed. “Not everyone has a family, either.”

“Why don’t you?”

“That’s a hell of a question to ask someone,” Cor said. A few weeks ago, this would have made the boy draw back in fear. Now, he simply narrowed his eyes and waited for a response. “I don’t know. I’m busy. I don’t have much free time.”

“You have time to be here,” Prompto said. There was a question in the air, unspoken words hanging heavy between them, but Cor couldn’t for the life of him figure out just what it was. He left a few hours later, feeling odd and disjointed, and—not for the first time—lay awake well into the night, trying to piece together his scattered thoughts.

 

\---

 

Eventually, Clarus saw fit to forgive Gladio and Noct for their late-night transgression, and the king reluctantly agreed to let them visit Prompto again. Noct celebrated this by bringing his new friend a gift, shoved haphazardly in a bag that clearly belonged to Iris. Prompto lifted the gift out suspiciously, and let out a high, delighted sound that startled everyone, including himself.

“What _is_ this?” he asked.

“It’s a baby chocobo plush,” Noct said. “I won it at the arcade, so.”

“I don’t know what to call it. Is there a word for this?” Prompto squeezed the plush in his hands and beamed at Noct and Gladio in turn. “It’s like that picture of the small dog you showed me. That feeling.”

“ _Cute?_ ” Gladio suggested.

“Yes,” Prompto said.

The chocobo soon had a place of honor atop the television, which was allowed back in on the condition that the boys stay away from anything resembling a fighting game.

Gladio was the one to learn that while Prompto was _technically_ literate, it was only pertaining to what he’d need to know in regards to orders, government missives, and basic commands on the field. The dark-haired nineteen-year-old became a regular fixture in the cell after breakfast, where he patiently helped Prompto fill in the blanks of his knowledge with what had to be the most badly-written fantasy book Cor had ever heard of. They made it through two books together before Prompto felt confident enough to read on his own, and Gladio gifted him with the rest of the series from his own collection. Ignis brought in more books on photography, and sat down with Prompto to watch a taped nature documentary that nearly had the young man in tears. The _prince’s_ choice of reading material was questionable at best, but when Prompto became hooked on a series about a young moon princess—or superhero—or both, Cor couldn’t tell—no one had the heart to take the comics away.

The process of withdrawal was slow, and still agonizing. There were several times when Cor would have to hold the boy down so that he could be fitted for a transfusion, and the slowly diminishing red in Prompto’s eyes had lengthened into a milky haze. Prompto was likely to be violent, then, lashing out at anyone who came near him, and the spell would last at least an hour or more. Every time, Cor had to suppress the fear that Clarus or Regis would decide that the boy was more trouble than he was worth, too much of a liability to let live. He would stay the night, after, warily watching the red glow fade behind the boy’s eyelids, to assure himself that all danger had passed.

When the nurse finally announced that Prompto was well enough to go outside for a short time, his new friends immediately started making elaborate plans, which Cor and Clarus shot down one by one. Ignis finally suggested that they walk in the outdoor gardens, to Noct’s supreme dismay and Clarus’ approval, and a date was set. Prompto spent the days leading up to it restlessly walking around the rooms, trying to build up his strength, and was nearly uncontrollable on the night leading up to it. He rolled about on the bed, throwing the chocobo plush into the ceiling and back with increasing force.

“It’s so frustrating,” Prompto said. “Why is tonight taking _forever?_ ”

Cor smiled, and dug into the bag at his feet. “Just wait until you learn about birthdays,” he murmured. He found what he was looking for and straightened, hiding it in his hands. “I have something that might distract you,” he said. Prompto turned to him. The whites of his eyes now outweighed the red, which made him look perpetually tired, but it was hardly as unsettling as he’d seemed when he first arrived. Cor handed Prompto a small camera with a wide lens.

“It’s just something I picked up,” he lied, when the boy lifted the camera in shaking hands. He’d spent _weeks_ looking for the right one, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. “Thought you might want to take some photos of your own—“

He froze as Prompto, half falling off the bed, pulled him into a tight, bone-creaking embrace. The boy held him there for a moment, and Cor awkwardly patted his back with one hand.

“Sorry,” Prompto said, pulling away. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m just. I feel so.” He waved the camera in a helpless gesture. “ _Thank_ you.” His face brightened, and he gestured for Cor to sit up.

“Come on, sit like this,” he said. He jumped off the bed and crouched next to Cor, who couldn’t keep the amusement from his eyes. The other boys were a good influence, after all—he sounded almost like a teenager. Cor tried not to scowl at the camera when Prompto flipped it around, and dutifully smiled on cue. A light flashed, and Prompto winced.

“There,” he said, turning to Cor. “This way, the first picture means something.” When Cor didn’t respond, he peered at him, thoughtful. Then he tapped his cheek with a hand, his lips twitching in a sideways smile. “Cor. Your _face._ ”

Cor blinked, startled, and touched a hand to his cheek. His fingers came back damp, and he stared at them for a long while, as though they were the key to a door he had yet to recognize. Prompto was already back on the bed, chattering excitedly about the different specs and features of the camera, but all Cor could think of was the past few weeks of sleepless nights, the long hours of rearranging his days to fit into an ill boy's erratic schedule, the stark emptiness of his rooms that had never preyed on him before. Clarus sitting next to him in the waiting room, already cognizant of what had changed in Cor before even _he_ knew. The debilitating fear that struck him every time the boy convulsed on the operating table. The sick feeling in his heart when he thought of the steps they may have to take, should the daemonic influence in Prompto's blood take hold. It all narrowed into a clear, singular focus. He felt winded by the realization, as though the very air around him had changed, and lowered his hand with a look of mingled awe and apprehension.

For what felt like the first time in his life, Cor Leonis knew what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALERT ALERT WE ARE REACHING PEAK DAD  
> I REPEAT  
> PEAK DAD  
> DAD LEVELS AT %80  
> *SIREN NOISE* *BUT A DAD SIREN NOISE, SO IT'S ACTUALLY THE SOUND OF A BUNCH OF DADS BUILDING A DECK SOMEWHERE*


	6. Chapter 6

Cor _thought_ he was being discreet.

It started with careful requests for an hour of a break after lunch. Instead of retreating to the training yards, Cor started taking walks out of the Citadel. He passed through the residential houses just along the outer wall of the palace, peering up at their high walls and over tidy gardens and patios. He found a park he’d never even seen before, and a café that served coffee he could recognize. Whenever he found a realty sign or a for-lease box, he carefully wrote down the numbers on his phone and put them away for safekeeping.

He certainly had _enough_ for a house. His quarters in the Citadel were free, and Cor was not liberal with his funds—He had a savings account that was truly staggering in size, thanks to over twenty years of service to the crown.

But this was all purely hypothetical, of course. It wasn’t as though he were planning to move. At least, not right away.

Still, it didn’t hurt to take a look at just _one_ house, did it?

Autumn was just breaking through the muggy heat of summer when Cor felt like he was ready. Prompto had been weeks without an incident, and while he did shake sometimes and had a tendency to startle at loud noises or sudden contact, he was quickly adapting to his new life. The young men who continued to visit him had much to do with this. They were constantly dropping in, or carting him off to closely-monitored adventures that had him staggering in late, throat hoarse with talking and sore with the effort of smiling. Noctis lent him some of his old clothes, and Cor had taught him one or two tricks he’d learned in decades of bachelordom—Prompto and Cor could be found most afternoons sewing patches and scraps of cloth to Noct’s old vests and jackets, making them into something more in line with what Prompto wanted to wear. Cor knew from his own life in the military that controlling what you wore was a source of power, and wasn’t surprised to find that it was as true for Prompto as it was for members of the Lucian military.

Throughout this, Cor’s resolution held firm. He would need to bring up the subject with Clarus, first. It would be cruel to suggest anything to the boy, only to find that the tentative plans forming in Cor’s mind were impossible to achieve. So one morning, he walked into Clarus Amicitia’s office for his daily briefing and steeled himself to ask the question that would change everything.

“Cor!” Clarus cried out, before Cor could speak. “I have a proposition for you.”

Cor stopped in his tracks.

“When was the last time you visited me at home for drinks?”

“Two years, now,” Cor said, utterly lost. “Clarus, what is this in reg—“

“Then it’s been too long.” Clarus rose from his desk. “Regis and I were talking, Cor. We think you may need some taking out of yourself. Come to our place tonight, and we’ll have a talk.”

“Of. Of course,” Cor said, unable to find his train of thought again. The older man smiled down at him benevolently, and clapped him on the arm.

“Good man. We’ll expect you at eight? Of course we will.”

And then Cor found himself being swept out of the room and deposited in the hall outside, speechless and confused, with just the barest seed of trepidation growing in his heart.

 

\---

 

Not much had changed about the royal manor since the last time Cor had the chance to visit. When Jared, the butler, bowed him through the front entrance-way, Cor saw that there were new paintings in the foyer and along the walls, and a third weapons rack in the reception room—Iris’, he supposed. He turned to find that the princess in question was in fact walking through the far door into a branching hallway, lugging a giant, green-clad crow doll in both hands. It was so large that it tilted the thirteen-year-old off balance, and she heaved it up in her arms to keep it from slipping. She caught sight of Cor and smiled.

“Mr. Leonis,” she said. “Daddy said you were coming. He and Dad are in the drawing room.”

“Thank you, your—“ Cor stopped as the doll started to slip again. “I’m sorry, but why the—?”

“Oh, Kenny Crow?” Iris’ grin was a wicked copy of Clarus’, all teeth. “It’s nothing, really. Just some good old-fashioned revenge.” She winked and walked off down the hall, dragging her disturbing prize after her.

The drawing room was through a smoked glass and brass-work door off the side of the reception room. Cor stopped there a moment, wondering if he ought to knock, when he heard a voice call out from within.

“Don’t hover, Cor, we can see you through the glass.”

Cor smiled wryly and pushed open the door.

Clarus and Regis sat in large leather armchairs, leaning over a glass coffee table. When Cor entered, he saw the king draw back, but the man’s hand still lingered on Clarus’ knee. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown with gold embroidered birds along the sleeves, and Clarus looked out of place in sweatpants and an oversized flannel shirt.

“You’ll have to take us as we are,” the king said, noting Cor’s gaze. “It’s been a long evening.”

“You’d _think_ a crown prince would know not to read his sister’s diary,” Clarus said, in a tone that implied this wasn’t the first time he’d voiced this opinion.

_Ah,_ Cor thought. _That would explain the revenge._ He stood there a moment, uncertain, before he caught Regis’ baleful look and sat in one of the empty chairs.

“I don’t recall if you drink, Leonis,” the king said. “I can’t, of course. Something in my magic rejects it—but Clarus swears the brandy is very good.” He lifted down a decanter and a small crystal glass.

“I drink on occasion, Your Majesty,” Cor said, “but you don’t have to…” He stopped at the look Clarus leveled his way.

“Have a glass,” the older man said. “You’ll need the courage.”

“Don’t scare the man, love.” Still, the king poured Cor a generous amount, and he felt a twist of worry in the pit of his stomach. “And house rules, Cor. No titles here. Call me Regis.”

“Yes, sir,” Cor said, automatically. Clarus raised a hand to smooth out a smile, and the king shook his head. “Thank you. Regis.” Cor took the proffered glass.

They all sat there a moment in silence, Regis putting away the decanter, Clarus regaining his composure, Cor feeling like a disobedient student being called to the dean’s office for punishment detail. At last, the king spoke.

“Do you know why we asked you here, Leonis?” he asked.

“Aside from requiring the pleasure of your company,” Clarus said, with a sideways grin. Regis cast him a stern look, and he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

“I thought,” Cor said, slowly, “this might have to do with my recent request to move to off-site housing.”

“In part,” said Regis. “Curious, really. How long have you served us? Twenty-two years? Such dedication. Most men in your position would have moved out of the Citadel years ago, found a suitable partner, settled down.”

“I’m not the settling down sort, Your—Regis.” Cor had resigned himself to this sort of speculation over a decade ago. While he didn’t begrudge others their desires for lovers or partners, Cor stayed disinterested on his own behalf. He had friends, and wasn’t lonely by any means, but saw no point in forcing himself to pursue a romantic entanglement for the sake of it. 

“But here you are,” Clarus said. “Forty years old, looking at houses. Spacious ones, too.”

“The one on Rose Street was very tasteful,” said Regis.

Cor frowned. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the king spying on his movements. Regis correctly interpreted his look and shrugged—a gesture Cor wasn’t used to seeing from his monarch.

“You can’t deny that your behavior has been… erratic, of late.”

“I haven’t been shirking my duties, Y—Sir,” Cor protested. Regis raised a hand in surrender.

“No, of course not. But your priorities seem to have changed.” His stare was far too knowing. Cor knocked back the drink in his hand and focused on trying to keep the burn of it from showing on his face as it went down. Clarus waved his hand, and Cor mutely handed the glass to him for a refill.

“Perhaps it is time you stated your intentions regarding the Magitech prisoner, Cor,” said his king. Cor watched Clarus fill his glass halfway, and took it back from him gratefully when offered. He took more time with this one, trying to buy a moment to collect his thoughts.

At last, he set the glass down on the coffee table.

“This isn’t how I’d like to ask,” he said, “but I’d like for the boy to be released into my custody.”

“Your custody,” Regis said, as though it were a question.

“As his guardian,” Cor continued. The silence in the room stretched uncomfortably. “I know how this sounds—“

“Cor,” Clarus said, in a kind voice, “You can’t just _adopt_ a prisoner of war.”

Cor took a slow breath before replying. “He can’t stay in the cells forever,” he said. “The kid never had a _chance_ to have a normal childhood, but he’s—“

“Do you believe you’re equipped to give him one?” Regis asked. “What do you know of children?”

“Nothing,” he admitted. “But I know soldiers. And I know Prompto. He isn’t the monster the Empire tried to make of him.”

Clarus shifted in his seat. “It would be harder to keep an eye on him, outside of the Citadel.”

“House arrest, then,” Cor said.

“What will happen when you are called out to the field?” Regis asked, in a sharp tone. “Who will look after him? The Scientia boy, possibly, but he has his own duties. The boy can’t be trusted alone in my sons’ companies. Will you leave him to roam your residence, possibly even the city, on his own?”

“If it comes to it,” Cor said, in a louder voice than he’d intended, “then with respect, Your Majesty, I will have to retire.”

Clarus’ shoulders straightened. Cor felt a flush rise to his cheeks—He’d never spoken to the king in this manner before. But the king only looked at him, a faint smile on his lips.

“That’s the right answer,” he said, quietly. Cor drew back in confusion, and Regis crossed his hands in his lap. “Being a parent entails sacrifice, Leonis. I would not feel comfortable leaving a wounded young man in your care if you were not willing to rise to the challenge. And Clarus spoke to Ignis Scientia a few days ago. He agreed to watch the boy when you are called away.” His eyes darkened, and Cor caught the flickering light of magic in the king’s bright irises. “The crown has need of you still, Marshal.”

“There will be restrictions,” Clarus added. “It will take some time.”

“But it can be done,” said the king.

Cor stared at them, entirely undone. “Your Majesty, I don’t know what to—“

“Regis,” the king said, with a smile.

The somber mood in the drawing room broke to the sound of furious voices in the distance. Clarus groaned.

“Dad!” The door slammed open, revealing a pajama-clad prince Noctis. He was wild-eyed, his hair hanging over his forehead, chest heaving with righteous fury. “That _monster_ was in my _room_ again—oh, hey, Cor—with her _daemon spawn._ ”

There was a hysterical giggle from the hall. “His name’s Kenny Crow,” Iris called, “and he loooves yooou.”

“Don’t torment your brother, Iris,” Clarus called. “And Noctis, _don’t_ call her a monster.”

“You taught me not to lie, Dad,” Noctis said, through gritted teeth. Clarus glanced over at Regis.

“Don’t look at me, love. They get it from _your_ side,” Regis said. Noct groaned and flung himself away from the door, clearly disgusted with his parents’ lack of sympathy. Iris cackled.

The king turned to Cor with a weary sigh. “You have much to look forward to, Leonis,” he said, as the dulcet tones of sibling-fueled chaos descended in the adjacent hall. Clarus laughed and rose to his feet, then slapped a heavy hand on Cor’s back.

“The joys of fatherhood,” he said, and strode off to survey the damage.


	7. Chapter 7

“Dude, it’s sticking up too high.”

Prince Noctis sat on the edge of Ignis Scientia’s bathtub, holding a plate of steak skewers in one hand while he tried to kick Gladio off of his seat next to him. Prompto was perched on a low stool near the sink, with Ignis standing out of sight behind him, teasing up his blonde hair with gelled fingers.

“Judge my taste at your peril, your highness,” Ignis said. “Don’t worry, Prompto. You look nice.”

“For a chocobo,” Noct said. “Hey, Prom, you should try one of these.” He left off kicking his long-suffering brother and moved to Prompto’s side. For a moment, his face was inches from Prompto’s, and then he pulled back, twisting his own skewer in his fingers.

_Target TL-3592,_ said a voice in the back of Prompto’s mind. _Seventeen years of age. Weakness: Base of the spine._

“Sure,” Prompto said, and pulled a piece of steak from Noct's half-eaten skewer. “Thanks.”

“Hey, man, not cool!” Noct bumped a skinny shoulder into his, and Prompto popped the food into his mouth before it could be taken away. Behind him, Ignis made a disapproving noise and lightly smacked the prince on the side of the head.

“This is really good, Ignis,” Prompto said, through a mouthful of steak.

Ignis’ voice sounded just this side of smug. “Thank you, Prompto. It’s good to know _someone_ is appreciative.” For a man only two years older than the prince, Ignis seemed determined to act the adult. Prompto couldn’t see why. The long stages of aging that people underwent in Insomnia were baffling, but Prompto figured that if he could choose between any of them, he’d like to’ve experienced what it was like to be a teenager, like Noctis. As it was, he felt apart, an observer who occasionally dipped his toes in before slipping back out again.

The feel of Ignis’ fingers in his hair was… nice. Prompto had never been touched as much, or as casually, back in the real world. He closed his eyes to it, and heard Gladio’s soft laugh from the bathroom counter.

“Someone likes being pampered.”

“Better him than me,” Noct said. “Prom, wanna try eyeliner?”

Prompto blinked, and was startled to see Noct staring up at him, his bright blue eyes wide and searching. For a moment, he wished he could take a photo—There was something about the prince that made his fingers itch.

Then the prince was gone, shoved to the side by one of Gladio’s large hands. Prompto held back a laugh, and Noct shot him a look of betrayal.

“Don’t let the prince go anywhere near your face, Prom,” said Gladio. He uncapped a black pencil in his hands. “I’ve been doing Iris’ makeup for the past year. Close your eyes.”

Prompto obeyed, smiling helplessly. Gladio held his cheek in one hand as the other dotted the edge of Prompto’s eyelids with the pencil, and he tried not to lean in to the touch.

“I heard Cor got permission to take you out into the city this afternoon,” Ignis said, after a moment. Prompto hummed in acknowledgment. “Will you be alright? There are… quite a number of people.”

“I’m doing better,” Prompto said, a little hurt. The first time he’d stepped into anything like a crowd, he’d nearly lost himself. All of those people, all that noise and movement, had made him want to— Well. He didn’t want to think about _that._ Sometimes, he still surveyed the places he and the others visited as though he were preparing for a fight: High ground, low ground, blind spots, cover. His hands ached for a gun that wasn’t there, he tasted metal in his mouth and sweat on his lips, felt the quickening hammer of his heart. And that fear again, the fear that should have been tempered out of him in his first phase of training, whispering the terrible death sentence that all MTs tried to hold at bay: _Defective, defective._

_You aren’t defective,_ Cor had said. He thought of the way Cor had looked at him that first day, when Prompto had broken, had behaved as no MT should, had begged not to die in the dirt of what should have been his last battleground. He thought of the strength of the man’s grip in his fingers, the softness in his eyes, the way he called him _kid,_ when anyone who saw Prompto knew that the word could never have applied to an MT.

The others—Ignis, Noct, and Gladio—never treated him as defective, either. They acted like he was a seamless part of their circle, a pivotal piece that had always had a place there. It was thrilling, and a little frightening, and every day brought something unknown into Prompto’s life that he never knew he needed before. But they weren’t soldiers, even if Gladio acted like one, sometimes. They didn’t know how to talk when Prompto started to shake or lose his breath, didn’t understand the way some routines had to be followed just so he could feel as though the world made sense.

When Gladio pulled his hand away, Prompto opened his eyes slowly. Noct begrudgingly admitted that Gladio had done an _adequate_ job, and Ignis gently pushed his back to urge him to stand. Prompto walked to the mirror and saw another man’s face looking back at him, young and smiling and almost human.

“Looks great, guys,” he said, and turned to Ignis with a smirk. “Let’s do Noct’s hair, next.”

 

\---

 

Prompto was escorted back to his cell just before he was supposed to leave with Cor, and found the older man standing awkwardly to the side, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t in his uniform, but he kept his shoulders back as though he were, and his eyes widened at Prompto’s appearance.

“Should I ask what inspired the hair?” he asked. Prompto grinned.

“You like it? It was Iggy’s idea.”

Cor opened his mouth, shut it again. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks fine.”

They fell into step, a slow march that came as naturally to Prompto as it did to Cor, and Prompto pulled out his camera to show off his latest favorite shots. Cor commented on them as best he could, but it was clear the man had no eye for light and shade. It was surprising for Prompto to realize he was _good_ at something, good in a way that other people weren’t, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it yet.

“You could make a living on this, if you wanted,” Cor said, as they left the Citadel through a side entrance. The man unconsciously stepped closer, blocking Prompto off from the busier side of the residential street. “I bet there are classes you can take.”

“On this?” Prompto asked. “Just on photography?”

“Sure,” said Cor. “Monica—my colleague—She went to school for some sort of art degree, before she joined the Crownsguard. There are classes for everything.”

Prompto shook his head at this, and snapped a photo of a thrush sitting on someone’s mailbox.

They stopped at a small brick house overlooking the Citadel. It had a sloped roof, a thin, plain lawn leading up to the gate, and wide glass windows. When Cor opened the gate, Prompto stayed back, rocking on his heels.

“Come on, kid,” Cor said, with the thin twist of his lips that counted as his smile. “We’re allowed to look.”

Prompto followed him in. The house was unfurnished, making the rooms seem much wider than they probably were, and it was very open. Not many doors, save for two bedrooms and a bathroom down the hall, and the windows had a fine layer of dust from the street outside.

“What do you think?” Cor asked.

“I don’t know,” said Prompto. “What am I supposed to think?” He winced. This was ignorance speaking again, his desire to adapt just to survive. This kind of talk always made Noct, Gladio, and Ignis go quiet, and brought out the soft pity in Cor’s eyes.

This time, Cor only shrugged. “I was talking to the King a while back,” he said, not looking Prompto’s way. “About moving you out of the Citadel. You need a larger place, somewhere that isn’t so… what?” He stopped at the look on Prompto’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Alone?” Prompto asked. “Am I moving out _alone?_ ”

“Gods, no.” Cor sighed. “Prompto. I requested that I have... _custody_ of you. We’d move here together. But only if you approve."

Prompto raised his eyebrows, certain he missed something. “Like… how Clarus and the King have custody of Gladio?”

“Something like that.” Prompto felt more confused than ever.

“I thought that’s how it was already,” he said. Wasn’t it? Hadn’t Cor been doing everything Ignis had described, in his careful, patient discussion of what consisted of a parent’s duty? Had Prompto been mistaken this whole time? “Or… do we have to be related? Gladio and the King aren’t related, but he’s _his_ son. I thought—I thought it was the same thing…”

Cor covered his face with a hand, but when he looked up again, he was smiling. “You’re right, Prompto,” he said. “It’s exactly the same thing.” He stepped forward, and pulled him into his arms. Prompto could feel the stutter of a laugh in Cor’s chest as his cheek was pressed against the warm fabric of his shirt. “It just took me longer to figure it out.”

“Right,” said Prompto, not getting it at all. He relaxed into the older man’s hold anyways, and looked up at the earthen, rusty color of the brick wall over Cor’s shoulder. “I like it,” he said, at last. “This house. Let’s do it.”

“Good,” said Cor. He pulled back, and braced his hands on Prompto’s shoulders. “Consider it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  WHEEE OOOO WHEEE OOOO  
> WE HAVE A CONFIRMED DUCKLING SIGHTING  
> HUGS AT CRITICAL MASS  
> DAD LEVELS AT %115  
> THE ENGINE CAN'T TAKE MUCH MORE OF THIS, CAPTAIN


	8. Chapter 8

It was far too early in the morning for Cor to be burning the bacon.

Cor slouched over the oven, dejectedly dropping brittle, crackling pieces of what _had_ been something edible onto a plate by the stove. He supposed he’d have to take the worst of the burned ones. Prompto had developed a stomach of steel over the past few months, but the Marshal wasn’t ready to introduce the boy to the Exhausted Bachelor’s 5AM Breakfast Special. The pancake incident from four months ago was bad enough. Cor plopped a few new strips on the pan and tried not to doze off on his feet again.

There was a sudden warmth at his side, and the faint sound of heavy breathing. Cor glanced down to find a large, massively fluffy black dog standing alert at his hip.

“Where’s your boy, Colonel?” he asked. The dog flicked her liquid gaze to his for one moment before focusing on the bacon.

“Right here,” said Prompto, from behind. Gloved hands lifted Cor’s arm, and Prompto ducked under it, expertly draping the Marshal’s hand over his shoulder with the ease of long practice. The boy peered down at the mess on the oven burner with the same desperate look as the dog’s, and Cor caught a smear of paint on the corner of Prompto’s cheek. He brushed at it with his free hand, and gave him a pointed look when his fingers came away blue.

“Clean up first,” he said. Prompto rolled his eyes. “No, Prompto, you aren’t poisoning yourself today.”

“It’s acrylic,” the boy said, as though that were any sort of explanation. He slipped out of Cor’s hold. “Come on, Colonel.” He whistled, and the dog reluctantly peeled away from the frying pan to latch herself to his side. Cor watched them turn the corner into the hall, shaking his head.

Prompto’s descent into the arts had started with the darkroom, which Cor had built for him that winter in the corner of their narrow back yard. Then Prompto had learned that you could transfer photos to canvas, and Monica, bless her interfering heart, had dumped ten years worth of old art supplies on the boy as soon as she heard he might have a passing interest. Cor enrolled Prompto in art classes almost in self-defense, and soon enough, Prompto was carefully modifying photos on canvas to include bizarre, fantastical monsters and stylized goddesses. When he dropped off one of his first creations at Monica’s office, the stoic, level-headed soldier almost burst into tears.

Now, Prompto’s bedroom was a site of controlled chaos. Cor had stopped attempting to clean it months ago, and the only one who dared step inside other than the Colonel was Noctis, whose own room—according to Prompto—was often worse.

The Colonel was Prompto’s counselor’s idea. The dog was one of those square-headed labrador mixes, with thick, curly fur and a tendency to sigh as though she had never been fed in her life, ever. She stuck to Prompto during his morning run, keeping between him and any passers-by, pushed her nose under his hands when he started to spiral, and was quick to fetch him a hoard of small, abandoned items alongside whatever medication she could find. Sometimes, Prompto would wake up from a nightmare to find that the dog had dropped paintbrushes, Cor’s vitamins, assorted fruit, and the television remote onto his chest, and would be staring up at him with earnest, soulful eyes. _I helped!_

That morning, she sat under Prompto’s chair with all the deep sorrow of a soul denied the favor of the bacon gods. Cor got some flack for keeping shorter hours at the Citadel now (he had yet to forgive Dustin for filling his office with bright “It’s a BOY!” balloons when the adoption papers went through), but the slower pace was worth it. He could count on one hand the number of times he actually sat down to eat in the morning before this.

“When are you coming back today?” Prompto asked, through what had to be at least three strips of bacon. Cor smiled faintly—the boy hadn’t scrubbed off all the paint in his hurry to get to the table. Flecks of blue and green spotted his hair, and the cloth of his vest crackled with it.

“Eighteen hundred,” Cor said. “Why?”

“No reason.” Prompto said, a little too quickly. Cor narrowed his eyes.

“If you’re planning a trip with Noctis,” he said, slowly, “remember that _I_ don’t enforce the curfew.”

Prompto grinned and rattled the thin, metal tracker bracelet on his wrist. It was an accepted part of the conditions that had to be met for Prompto to live there—If he went too far out of the bounds set by the king, or stayed out past a certain hour, an alarm would go off in the Crownsguard watch room. This had only happened once since he and Cor moved in to their new house, and neither of them were eager to repeat the experience.

Their neighbors hardly noticed that anything was odd about the boy. After months of slow recovery, the red in Prompto’s eyes had long since disappeared, though his irises would always have a reddish-orange glow about them. His voice was permanently altered, as well: The buzzing, crackling sound in the back of his throat wouldn’t go away, and he had to be careful not to tax himself. Once, after he and the prince had spent an evening shouting at each other in the way of all teenage friends, Prompto had spent a terrifying three days unable to speak above a whisper.

The prince was _another_ mess Cor wasn’t prepared for.

“Congratulations,” Clarus had said, as Cor sat with him and Regis in the back porch of the royal manor. “You have a teenager.”

Iris was the one to break the news to the three of them, which had led to an almighty row between her and her brothers that lasted nearly a month. Prompto and Noctis had been caught behind the garden shed, frantically tugging at each-others’ shirts and making out with all the careful secrecy of a behemoth in a ballroom, and had to be sat down in opposite ends of the living room while Cor, Regis, and Clarus deliberated.

“I had no idea,” Cor said, for the third time. “He talked about Noctis, sure, but—It just doesn’t—“ To be frank, Cor rarely had an opportunity to remember that people _had_ those sort of interests. He hadn’t considered this to be a possibility.

“I’m more upset that he thought he had to sneak behind our backs,” Clarus admitted. “Did he think we’d disapprove?”

“We do,” Regis said, shortly, and Clarus sighed. “Noctis is the crown prince, love.”

“And he’s seventeen,” said Clarus. “Let him live.”

Nothing was decided by the end of that afternoon. Cor took Prompto home in silence, and spent most of the evening frantically searching through sex ed resources online. The resulting conversation was possibly the most mortifying experience either of them had undergone.

Now, Prompto and Noctis were allowed to step out together—on occasion. With supervision. Even so, Cor suspected that they were secretly meeting up alone when they claimed to be out with the rest of their circle.

Ah, well. They’d burn that bridge when they came to it. Cor left the house just as Prompto and the Colonel were getting amped up for their morning jog, and walked out into the warm air of an early Insomnian summer.

 

\---

 

Cor opened the door that evening to find Prompto standing at the kitchen counter, looking nervous. The Colonel sat on the other side, whining, looking up at what had to be the most lopsided cake Cor had ever seen. It was vaguely orange, and the icing had melted, giving it a decidedly damp look.

“Did I miss something?” he asked, as he kicked off his boots in the foyer.

“No,” said Prompto. “Sort of. I mean. Sit down, Cor.”

Oh, dear. Cor hung his jacket up on the hook in the hall and sat at the table. He hoped this wasn’t another Noctis situation in the making.

Prompto brought the cake over and set it down on the table. It wobbled. “Um,” he said, eloquently. “Ignis gave me the recipe. I, uh. Do you know what day it is?”

“Tuesday?”

Prompto sighed. “It’s been a year, Cor. Since you found me.”

Cor looked from the cake to Prompto’s worried expression, and couldn’t keep back a smile. “It has? Sorry, Prompto, I should have gotten you something.”

Prompto sat down a few chairs away. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I just. Wanted to thank you.”

“That isn’t necess—“

“ _It is._ ” Prompto was twisting his hands in his lap. “I know we don’t talk about it much, but it _is._ It’s important.” He held up a lumpy package wrapped in tissue paper and pushed it across the table. Cor raised his eyebrow and ripped a hole in the side, and pulled out what looked like a round watch on a fine chain. “Press the button,” Prompto said. Cor did, and the trinket started to glow with a steady, white light, rays streaming through the delicate ironwork of the cover. Cor opened it, and the light cast the small dining area into harsh relief. The source of the light came from a small crystal set on one side. Cor pressed the button again, and the light went out. When he blinked the spots from his eyes, he saw that the other side of the contraption was fitted with a photograph. Prompto, skinner and paler than he was now, his eyes a mottled red against the dim light of his cell. And next to him, Cor, looking slightly pained but happy, squinting against the glare of the camera’s flash.

“I thought,” Prompto said, in an anxious tone, “that you might need an extra light. When you’re out of the city. It isn’t as bright as an outpost guard light, but Ignis says the crystal generates enough light to hold the weaker daemons back. And the photo is because. Um. I don’t know. It’s…” He trailed off. Cor’s expression twisted, and he raised a fist to his mouth.

“Oh, no,” Prompto moaned, dropping his forehead on the table. “I knew it would be too much.”

Cor closed the watch-light carefully, and leaned across the table to take the boy’s hand. _His_ boy.

“Thank you, Prompto,” he said, with a smile. “It’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an abrupt ending, I feel... hmmmmm
> 
> The dog's full name is The Colonel Floofsalot. This is incredibly important information that you all need to know.


End file.
